Katie cringes back from War, from the shockwave, nearly knocked to her
knees, in the distance, the black king castles, and the queen moves
forward, but not to this half of the 'board'.

Holmes looks around swiftly, then moves forward to stand very near to the
black knight. "You're correct." he says. "But you are not answering the
questions. Do you not /have/ an answer? I can tell you what the evidence
suggests, then. It suggests that you're constrained by what you represent:
rage, or anger, apparently, and by how you appear, as a black knight,
unable to strike the squares nearest you - such as the one I now occupy -
but forced to jump away to attack. You are a limited creature - important
but not supreme. You may be constrained by reason, or moderation,
swallowed or unleashed depending upon the situation. Now. What will you do
with that? This is the only question."

There's the soft chiming of tack and the drum of hooves - the black pair
aren't the only horses on the board. Manifesting suddenly at Jack's side
is a dappled grey gelding, who regards the Englishman patiently. Without
hesitation, Jack swings lightly up into the saddle. "How I've missed
this," he murmurs, wheeling to face out over the board.

Kate looks at the board, chewing her lip. "I'm not the equivalent of
Sei-chan by a long shot, so no Rook am I. Nor am I a queen, and my
horsebackriding skill is negligible. Therefore...I must be a Bishop.
Gloria in Excelcis!" She steps onto the board, heading for the proper
position...and she, too, is transformed into a proper 'costume' -- a white
wimple, dress and mantle much like a nun's, but with a sturdy looking
crozier staff to hold before her. A fighting sister, if ever there was
one.

Constantine jerks back as the cannonball lands, then finds his feet with
uncommon grace, a grace he certainly doesn't have outside of this strange
reality. He fixes War with a narrow-eyed stare. "I think we know that," he
says quietly. Without his noticing it, his clothes have gone from their
usual unimpressive colors to a pure, shining white--everything from his
trenchcoat to his boots. His cigarette is gone; he looks weirdly heroic
now, the contrast sharp against what everyone here knows of him. No horse
comes for him, though. Instead, in a manner more reminiscent of a sneaking
thief than a noble knight, he moves into a position protective of Katie by
darting and ducking among the others in an L shape.

Kitty staggers at the shockwave and draws a breath, and she's dressed in
gray and black again, pirate without the eyepatch as she pulls Katie to
her feet. "Chess doesn't /have/ cannon!" she calls out aloud, lifting the
girl into her arms again. "And remember who's playing - /we're on both
sides/." She ventures forward a step, but the girl's weight keeps her
slowed, slower than any of the others.

Not far, and closing - Pete breaks into a run, on an intercept course.
God, he still thinks it's possible to win this laterally, doesn't he. He
still thinks it's possible to look at it sideways and change the rules and
make it work so everyone comes out alive. His steps take him in an 'L'
that mirrors John's, but to a place that already *has* a player; there's
an odd flicker, a darkness in the air, and Pete - if wishes were horses -
can apparently ride a horse only in dreams. There's no sign of the former
rider, and Wisdom's cigarette is clamped in his mouth. One hand on the
reins, one hand raised slightly, a weapon. He is a saboteur. He is also -
uh, well, still wearing black. "Nobody," he calls around his cigarette,
"sink any battleships, ay?"

Seishi makes no movement this turn; she stays where she is, still between
War and Katie, tachi held proudly up and gleaming bright as a banner. She
looks this way and that as, one by one, the others take up their parts and
make their moves, and a hint of a smile curves the grim set of her mouth.
"Dear world I'm pleased to meet you."

War's horse prances, snorting steam as curds of bloody foam drop from the
bit between his teeth. Neighing, stamping, he rears as if in offense,
defiance, to Holmes' comment. The rider, himself, bellows hellaciously; it
is the sound of bullets screaming through the air, the ringing of swords,
the dropping of bombs. The air is thick with the scent of blood, and in
places further down the board, it seems as though crimson has already
stained much of it, irreparably. He wants, desperately, to come crashing
down upon Holmes; one can see it in his ember-like eyes. Instead, he
snarls wordlessly as he moves, shifting two spaces over, a space forward,
and comes that much closer to Kitty and her charge.

Holmes calmly takes a step backwards and diagonally, staying right next to
the knight. "Listen carefully. You are /limited/. She will always be able
to evade you, until you are hemmed in and captured, if we are to use the
chess meaning of your appearance - if the emotional meaning is used, you
will always persist but there is no need for you to dominate. Indeed, it
will weaken the mind that gives you birth, perhaps shattering it entirely
and crippling you with it. Again, you give no answer, displaying your
weakness in the face of reason - the objection is its own proof. Submit to
your position, await your use or expression or suppression. Your maker is
in control, not you."

The gelding doesn't merely trot forwards...but rather rears up and
crowhops forward, as if to mime the movements of an actual chess piece.
Settling in the new space, positioned to better defend Kitty. Jack clings
nimbly, then regains his former easy seat as the beast ends up on all four
hooves again. He reaches for the weapon he expects to accompany the steed
- the trusted cavalry sabre taht used to hand at his saddle pommel. But
there's a confused blink, as he picks up a metallic cylinder instead. He's
been armed with a Maglite?

Not quite. As he thumbs the right spot, there's a familiar ZAP *zhooom*
noise, followed by a hum. A sabre indeed. Just not the kind he's used to.
It doesn't seem to dismay the horse, though.

For the moment, Kate must wait; the knights are able to leap over the row
of pawns, but the bishop cannot. Therefore she has patience, and waits for
various pieces move out and about before she side-steps one way, then
another...angling around the board with a careful eye to the pieces around
her.

"I don't think this is normal chess," Constantine calls dryly to Kitty.
Then he shifts his gaze to War. It's a cold one. He casts a much more
protective glance at Katie before returning his attention to the enemy--or
one of them, anyway. Holmes seems to be doing a fine enough job of
verbally badgering War, so John keeps quiet on that front. Not, however,
on the Jack front. "Celliers has got a *lightsaber*? Oh, that's too good."
He can't resist making an amused comment, even now. It's just who he is.
He seems serious enough about protecting Katie, though, that's for sure.

Kitty keeps her gaze moving, watching the board, gauging pieces' movements
- but as Holmes presses War past the point of speech, as the chess-rules
take over, the fear fades from her expression, the confidence grows along
with a bright, joyous light in her eyes. Spurred not least by Seishi's
words. And /her/ choices are simple:  move or stand still, but keep Katie
out of War's path. One square at a time, keeping all the possible enemy
moves in mind, and trust the others to know what they're doing, knights
and bishop, rook and ... and Holmes.

Because /every/ chess board should have its very own Holmes. "Odd about
the fishtraps," observes Pete, dropping the reins to take the cigarette
out of his mouth, tapping ash to the glossy squares below. He keeps his
open, empty hand away from the horse's body, away from himself, but it's
not glowing or anything, just a matter of readiness. He moves, gaze
flickering back and forth between the Holmes and War, and the Kitty and
Katie; obstructing the path of those behind him. "Pryde, wasn't it Ro
Laren who went off about the wooden shoes called 'saboe'? If Jack gets a
lightsabre, does that mean I get your quantum spanner?"

When War moves, Seishi pivots in her square, turning ninety degrees to
keep her face toward him, and she watches as the others move, shifting
their places, tightening the defense around Kitty and her charge--watches,
waiting for an opening, waiting for a straight line.
And then she has one.
Cords flex and shift in her wrist as her arm extends and the tachi is
swept out horizontally beside her. She strides out of her square--breaks
into a sprint as she crosses the square between them--and into War's
square, whirling into a pirouette that flashes the tachi around in an arc
of steel and scythes the red horse's legs out from under it.

The horse's screams are high and shrill, unending and like a baoinsidhe;
it shrieks, bleeding, falls. Nearly thrown from it, the rider shows no
compassion for the animal, never stills it, never brings mercy. His rage
seems unconquerable; he lifts high his sword and snarls, bringing the
flaming blade down upon a seam of black and white glass. "My purpose will
be /SERVED!/" he cries, and the world falls all to pieces. Breaking,
shattering, crumbling,
much like the house of mirrors, but it is not that the world falls /away/,
it is that the world falls down, caving in upon itself, broken and
mangled, disorienting and brings down the pieces of the chessboard,
letting them fall. And fall. Through the underside of Hell. Landing is no
pleasant ordeal, what with the world around being this vast waste of
broken and crumbled things. Ash and snow filter through the air, grey,
thick, choking. Discordia reigns, but there is the most wistful of
melodies so very faint, very far in the background, where only whispers
and hints of things to come may exist. Holmes lands amidst the wreckage of
Baker Street, familiar chairs with torn stuffing, stained cushions and (I
wonder if I haven't done you a disservice.) broken seats sit near a
destroyed fireplace. Pete lands amidst the ruins of Ronsaphan, a familiar
Eastern European location that's (that were *me*) nothing but a charred
pit, ash choking, clinging. Seishi lays in the rubble that is the
chessboard--No, it's... bits and pieces of a familiar Bostonian mansion,
lying in fragments, all around. Her tessen lays nearby, enamel scarred,
metal twisted, still bearing teethmarks. Kitty revisits a place that her
nightmares remember...(Storm!) Xavier's mansion, quite and hollow,
blasted, ruined. Gutted. Broken. Dead. Constantine faces a staircase. A
single, simple staircase. (I told him. I told him. I told him.) It leads
to nowhere but memories; not even the door at the top remains. For Kate,
there is the crumpled remains of a red biplane, blackened and devastated;
she is nearly pinned (Come fly with me, Josephine) beneath a piece of
wing. And Jack lands, amidst piles of moldering fatigues, standard issue
boots, a pair of manacles can be seen, and there, a lash.

Broken worlds, broken dreams... Broken everything. Even as Katie struggles
past a fallen pillar, to reach Kitty, to offer her up a book, it too is
broken, black with soot, pages cracked and falling to brittle bits. "Tell
me a story?" she asks, her blue eyes wide, hopeful.

Holmes lands hard, the breath driven out of him, he was just stepping
forward for some final twist of the oratorical dagger and was off balance
when he plummeted a horrifically undefined distance to land in the
splinters of his armchair. Like a child he sucks at a small wound on his
ring finger ("Thank god, you'll do! Come! Come! Come man, it will only be
three minutes or it won't be legal!") momentarily, drawing himself slowly
and bruisedly back to his full height, taking in his surroundings quickly,
and those in them. "Speak...is everyone...all right?" he requests,
gathering instinctively from their body language and their postures that
they are not seeing what he's seeing. "We are all in different visions. Be
careful." he explains.

Constantine's shining white attire is back to his usual clothes now: cheap
suit, rumpled trenchcoat. He draws in ragged breaths and coughs a few
times as he steadies himself from the fall. There's a cigarette back in
his hand. But he's too busy staring up those stairs to notice it. "No," he
murmurs, blue eyes wide with fear. "Please, not again." He swallows hard,
then manages to pull himself out of it--at least partly. His eyes are
still slightly glassy. "I'm here." He does not, however, say that he is
all right. "Just 'cos they're different doesn't mean they're not real in
their own way," he says darkly.

Landing in a tattered heap amid the ash and the awful stench of charred
flesh, Pete takes longer than normal to pick himself up, brush himself off
- because there's nothing in /this/ place that can kill him, nothing here
left alive but him. And then he hears people speaking up, here and there;
Holmes, John, Katie - people who clearly wouldn't be here, people who were
perfectly all right a moment ago - and Katie was with Kitty, so she /must/
be the one the story's being asked of. Lightning thought, in this moment,
and he's listening - always listening. "All right," says Wisdom haltingly.
Not real. Not real. "'Real enough' hurts, yeah, Johnno. It hurts awfully.
But 'real' hurts far, far worse. Mind that and you may just come out the
other side in one piece. Pryde, you about?" He can't see much.

Kitty sprawls on landing, black and grey turned only to grey now - and
what grey. Crumbled. Shattered. Her eyes widen, the glory of adrenaline
drained from them for a choking, staggering moment, the images and
memories she's been dodging since she entered the dreamscape come home
(oh, it /was/ home) all in one moment to roost.  She can't even scream:
only cough, try to clear her throat of ash, give a dry sob as she stares
in horror.  Holmes's voice, Constantine's, don't penetrate for a moment.
Don't fit.  She was, after all, the only one left alive. And for this
moment she is, again, almost lost in grief, barely able to function.
Couldn't save them; couldn't protect -

And then there's Katie's voice, and she straightens up up to a sitting
position, wincing a little as she phases a ragged bit of metal out of her
arm. The girl /is/ alive. The voices make sense. She swallows awkwardly,
coughing once more, and pulls the sash from around her waist, unfolding it
and holding it out toward Katie, tying it gently about the little girl's
nose and mouth to filter out what it can of the ashfall. "I - I'm here,"
Kitty answers. Life for the living, death for the dead. And they're not
lost, not yet. She shifts on the rubble and makes a lap, patting it to
invite Katie to settle in. "A story.  All right." She doesn't need the
book; she never did. Fairy-tale math. Storybook rules. "Once upon a
time..."

Seishi picks herself up with exaggerated care; black soot marbles her
white clothing, and bright red streaks it when she scrubs her hands
against her thighs, but the blood won't wipe clean from the skin, and she
looks down at her palms with troubled eyes. "I'm all right..." she
murmurs. ("None of it mine.")

The book comes apart as it's set aside, seared pages spilling out onto the
shattered ground. The paper is scorched, warped, the text unreadable, but
the pictures remain clear, in quick flashes, the watercolor-pastel
art-deco illustrations of a fairy story. Seravina in Grecian white garb,
chained to a rock by the sea for the Kraken. Jack dressed as a soldier,
facing a dog that sits on a treasure chest and stares back with eyes as
big as dinner plates. Whisper in a blue hooded robe, scattering sparkles
through the air with a slim white wand. Constantine, with trenchcoat and
cigarette as always, and a sly smirk and a fox playing at his feet--a
fragment of the caption reads 'Reynardine'. A magnificent black dragon,
breathing flame, one of its eyes scarred shut. Kate as a fire-sprite,
winged and armed. Holmes in a frozen-over library, arranging puzzle-bits
of ice into a pattern that makes no sense. A wind that smells of garbage
and refuse kicks up, snatching the scattered pages away.

Without making excuse, truly, without even a struggle to ease herself from
a comfortable lap, Katie is gone. Perhaps easily distracted, perhaps only
a fragment that is unravelling, the little girl is no longer beside Kitty,
no longer listening for the story, no longer attentive to the book, but
picking her way over debris, through gutterleavings and broken bits of
former lives. Here a memory, there a memory. She slowly, painstakingly,
makes her way to Constantine, her deliberate movements echoed by someone
far, far off, where these broken bits resolve into a junkyard, where it
almost meets the horizon, where the world begins to melt into the
strangest patterns, looping in and back and through themselves. There, a
small pedestal is raised, and someone is near it, moving from pile to
pile, picking up this and that. Carved upon the plinth, the word 'TRUTH'
can be seen. Even from here, her twilight eyes are recognizeable, somehow.
Even from here, one can see her lift deft fingers to gently touch, reach,
searching for a glint of bronze that isn't there.

Pale, fair, frail, blue eyed and blonde, Katie reaches John's side, and
offers her small hand to his, eyeing the staircase with grave solemnity.
It is irony, that she should twine her fingers with his, bittersweet, that
her words should be lifted to his ears, without guile, bearing only
generosity. Her voice is sweet, soft as she whispers, large eyes fixated
most intently upon the magus, Constantine. "Take my hand. Don't be afraid.
I'll look after you."